(tentative) title: Two in the back of a theatre.

warnings: sexuality

02-10-2004

Her hand creeps up the inseam of my jeans and I shiver against her side. The light plays across her rose petal skin and I want her to stop because anyone could turn around and see, and she should really keep doing that because it feels good calling the rush of wings that beat deep and low inside. I want to feel the skin of that lightly stroking hand that's making me so very conscious of my own hand sliding under her t-shirt seeking warm skin, the quickening of our carefully measured breaths, the slip in the self-satisfied grin in the corner of my eye that's shaded in blues, greens, movie reds.

She molds herself to me and I am half in her seat because the armrest is up, and we are tense and soft, relaxing into touch that sparks and dances into bloodstreams that I can feel pooling between my legs and in the vein against her neck that I graze with my nose and my lips and my cheek. Neck, jaw line, lazily skimming her surface like a raptor's wings, she shivers into me and I regret not seeing the light harsh and real coloring her face. Eyelashes brush my cheek.

Her earlobe held gently between my lips, my teeth; lapping its sides and its delicate curve with my tongue. Its roundness and flatness fascinate my mouth, its thickness is teasing. Her stilled hand grips my thigh, palm sweating through my jeans to my blood to my racing heart. I don't want her handprint there where people will see, but I do. I want them to hear the needy little noises she makes and be too embarrassed to turn around; I want them to guess who we are as they file into the aisles with darting, suspicious eyes that imagined and imagined until the lights came up. A finger slides into the elastic of her panties and my hand rests, content, against a hipbone.

She yanks away, startled, and I automatically slide into my seat. The armrest falls between us with a loud thunk, magnified a thousand times by my confused mortification and the new bruise forming on my arm. Then I see: the frame on the movie screen is bubbling lava black, fire orange and sunrise red, starting from a rip in the protagonist's chest and hungrily rippling to the outer edges of the screen. The speakers whirr loudly. I make a face and lean on the armrest separating us. She rests her elbow against mine on the padding, giggles at my annoyance, idly traces the drink holder. The theater lights come on like a shot through the eye, precursor to the subsequent chorus of groans and resumption of pre-movie conversations held to a low burble.

Soon the complaints sound loudly, and someone strides off importantly to get the manager. Everyone else is looking over our heads to the projection window, where a poor employee, harried and pimpled, is trying to fix the reel.

'At least that awful noise stopped.'

She rolls her eyes at me--'You can be so weird sometimes'--and we lean in together, shoulder to shoulder and bare elbows sparking, and talk about nothing and smile.